Come one, come all . . .

Above: Street art in Bariloche, Argentina

It's January! And in Argentina, that means just one thing: TOURISTS.

Ellen and I returned to Buenos Aires a few days ago to find that the city had nearly emptied of actual Argentines. Chasing cooler temperatures and wider pastures, most locals have wisely picked up their mate gourds and their thermoses and headed out, not to return until late February. (I swear, one day I will wax poetic about mate. For now, just think of it as the tea that Argentines - and apparently Uruguayans - drink like it's God's greatest creation).

In the place of actual Argentines, Buenos Aires has suddenly become home to whole new group of city dwellers, a group that favors those nifty zip-off pants, teva sandals, cameras with lenses that double as weapons, and North Face gear in all colors and varieties. The amount of English spoken in the city has doubled in the past week.

Little do they know, these tourists are really here to make us expats feel better about ourselves. Normally we're the ones getting on the subte in the wrong direction and then getting stuck in the station at the end of the line. Or the ones who get so distracted practicing Spanish with the "nice" taxi driver that we don't realize he's driving in circles so he can charge us more. We're the ones who huddle "discretely" in the corner to hide the fact that (shocker!) we still sometimes use a map to get around. We make pathetic attempts at using local street slang, have no clue how to prepare mate the "right" way, and we always have strange requests at restaurants (sin carne?!?).

So, the arrival of fresh meat in Buenos Aires (read: tourists) gives this particular expat a bit of satisfaction. Does this subte line take us to Constitution? Someone asks in broken Spanish. Si! I reply. Which way to the fair? How much does that cost? That way! Quince pesos! I'm so weathered and knowledgeable I can barely stand it. I'm particularly cruel and I've discovered that if the music is loud enough and the drinks are strong enough, I can convince Americans with poor Spanish skills that I am indeed an Argentine. This has only happened once but I'm considering it a victory.

In short, I'm finally starting to peel the "strange short foreigner girl" sticker off of my forehead. I'm pretty sure it will never go away completely (and honestly, I'm not sure I'd want it to), but finally settling into the city isn't half bad.

Above: Lago Puelo near El Bolson, Argentina.

And some updates: Ellen leaves town tomorrow to head back to the land of dollars and peanut butter. Sad! She has lots of stories to tell about Pablo the Chilean who grows suspicious-looking green leafy plants in his lakeside house, a Christmas dinner with so many different types of people that it resembled a UN meeting, and a New Years that will certainly not be forgotten.

More pictures of our trip are here: Pictures from Patagonia. You don't have to have facebook to see them.

If you want to see what we did on New Years, go to Josh's blog. Mom, please note the part near the end where your dear daughter (read: me) arrives at the disco and chugs a great big giant . . . water. Yes, water. You trained me right.

Above: Spotted while hiking Chile.